London's Last True Scoundrel (10 page)

Honey replied, “No, I don’t think it can. I ordered the coachman to spring the horses, so I daresay this is the outer limit of their speed.”

Staring out the window at the passing countryside, she said wonderingly, “I cannot believe I am truly going to London.”

Turning to him, she stretched out a hand impulsively to brush his wrist. “Thank you for agreeing to take me.” For once, she beamed up at him with unalloyed friendliness.

Davenport sucked in a breath.

He’d seen her disdainful, frustrated, furious, cold-eyed, exasperated, defeated, mortified, shocked.… Now that he thought about it, in the past twenty-four hours she’d fairly run the gamut of emotions—mostly provoked, he must admit, by him.

He had not yet seen her smile.

It was like sunshine, that smile, pouring over him, through him, filling his senses with light. He fell into the glow of it, stretched out like a cat to bask.

Puzzlement soon dimmed the gleam in her eyes.

“What is it?” she asked. “You seem distracted, my lord.”

“Your beauty would drive any man to distraction,” he murmured, without the least premeditation or guile.

“Beauty!” She snorted, all trace of her former warmth gone. “Do not think to empty the butter boat over me, my lord. I am passable, that is all.”

Passable?
Davenport would have argued that point but halted the vehement denial that sprang to his lips. He refused to make a cake of himself over her. Particularly with Trixie’s bright, inquisitive gaze upon him.

Then, too, the strength of his need to convince Honey how wrong she was about her delightful appearance bothered him.

He’d known this slip of a girl rather less than a day. He’d take pleasure with her if he could, but he made it a rule to keep his affairs light and uncomplicated. Not for any woman would he change his ways. Not even for a woman who smiled up at him like a sunburst.

He turned the subject. “Did you leave word for your brothers? They will worry about you.”

“No, they won’t worry,” she said. “But you may be easy. I did write them a note, saying that I had left for Town with Mrs. Farrington to accompany me.”

“Won’t they find out soon enough you’re not with her?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “They won’t mind what I do, as long as I am out of their house and I’m not asking them for money.”

He wished now that he’d made those brothers of hers hurt more when he’d had the chance. “You are such an innocent,” he said, shaking his head. “What if I had evil designs on you?”

She gave him a severe look. “You do have evil designs on me.”

“And yet, here you are, traveling with me to London, with only an incapacitated maid for protection.”

He glanced over at Trixie, who had fallen asleep. As if on cue, the maid emitted a gentle snore. “You are too trusting, Honey, my dear.”

“I believe I have your measure, my lord,” she said, smoothing out her skirts.

“You are perhaps unaware of my reputation with women,” he murmured provocatively.

“I do not need to listen to gossip. I can see for myself that you are a scoundrel,” she said. “But if you did not assault me this morning when I was in such a vulnerable position, I do not believe you will assault me now.”

“Perhaps I merely waited until your brothers were not here to help you,” he said. “Did you think of that?”

Her eyes widened. She had not thought of that. But she recovered. “I was in your bedchamber. It would not have been difficult to convince them I had solicited your advances.”

He tilted his head. “True. I wonder why that didn’t occur to me.”

“Perhaps,” she said with an almost condescending smile, “because you are not quite as black as you wish to paint yourself, my lord.”

He considered. “No, that can’t be it. Must have been that my wits are a little slow first thing in the morning.”

And again, her smile had that gallingly knowing quality to it. “I think your wits are far sharper than you would have me believe.”

He regarded the toes of his evening shoes, which had been ruined by mud. All the asinine phrases he might have uttered to disprove her claim deserted him.

Again, he changed the subject. “Do you think Trixie needs medical attention? Perhaps we ought to take her to a doctor.”

“For a wrenched ankle?” she said, diverted. “I doubt there is much the doctor would recommend that we are not already doing. Perhaps when we get to London…”

She trailed off and frowned, as if an unwelcome thought had occurred to her.

Ah. He’d wondered when she’d consider the practicalities of her stay. Finances being one of them.

He waited to see if she’d mention the problem to him. He had his own plans to fund her little sojourn in the metropolis, but he’d have to go about it in a subtle manner. Honey would never accept charity from him.

Besides, while he fully intended to entice her to his bed, he had no plans to ruin her. She was a gently bred lady and he did not want to scuttle her chances on the Marriage Mart. In such an affair, discretion was called for. He could be discreet when he set his mind to it; it was just that ordinarily he didn’t see the need.

She tilted her head, and a sliver of sun slanting through the window burnished those lovely eyes to gold. “Do you think, my lord, that your cousin will put me in the way of work while I am with her? I could offer my services to a genteel family whose daughters require instruction in dancing and deportment.”

“Hire yourself out as a governess?” He shook his head. “My dear Honey, that would never do.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “It’s a respectable occupation for a lady. It’s what I’ve been doing for the past four years.”

“Not under my cousin’s care,” he said firmly. “Rosamund would be mortified at the idea of a guest in her house obliged to earn her keep.”

Not to mention that if Honey tutored these girls, she’d likely be asked to live in their household. She’d be chaperoning girls at balls and parties and thus inaccessible to
him
. He didn’t like that idea at all.

She opened those luscious lips to argue. “But—”

“Do you
wish
to make your hostess a laughingstock?” he demanded in a tone of righteous indignation.

And, damn it, he
was
indignant, if not in a righteous cause. She was a mulish little thing when she got the bit between her teeth. What if she ruined his plans? He’d be obliged to steal her away somehow and that would take a lot of effort, besides creating a scandal of epic proportions.

She seemed to see the force of his argument, because she subsided back against the threadbare squabs. “Perhaps I might be of assistance to Lady Tregarth, then. Does she have children?”

“One on the way,” he said. “But don’t let that concern you. She’s as fit as a flea. I daresay she will ask you to sew something or do some tatting or whatnot,” he added vaguely. “She is always making something for those charities of hers. And then there will be invitations to write for parties, that sort of thing. But you’re not a servant. You’re a guest. Rosamund won’t ask you to do anything she wouldn’t ask her cousin or her friend.”

*   *   *

The very idea of Rosamund, Lady Tregarth, considering Hilary a friend filled her with a bittersweet longing. She’d seen all her own friends drift away from Miss Tollington’s to become wives and mothers elsewhere. Fully occupied with their families and households, they’d largely forgotten her, though she made a point of continuing to correspond with them.

The other teachers at Miss Tollington’s were pleasant but considerably older than Hilary. Then, too, living in such close quarters had made them all guard their privacy to such an extent that she didn’t know any of them in the intimate way one knew one’s bosom bows.

A baby
 … How lucky Lady Tregarth was. Hilary had seldom thought beyond the gentle, kind husband of her dreams. But now the idea of children of her own filled her heart with longing.

“When is Lady Tregarth’s baby due?” she asked.

He looked at her as if she were mad. “I haven’t the foggiest notion. Poor Tregarth is beside himself with worry over her. He dotes on her, you know.”

A deVere who doted on his wife? This Hilary must see.

“She must be very beautiful,” she said.

“Oh, she is. A diamond of the first water,” said Davenport. “But you’ll meet her yourself.”

A flutter of nerves seized her chest. “Are you certain Lady Tregarth will be prepared to have me to stay? Perhaps it is not a good time.”

“Well, if it isn’t, I’ll take you to my sister, the Duchess of Ashburn,” said Davenport cheerfully. “Although I’ll say this: You’d be far better off with Rosamund. Cecily can be a mite prickly.”

“Particularly where females who might have designs on her brother are concerned,” observed Hilary, nodding.

He cleared his throat, as if that idea made him uncomfortable. “We shall concoct a story to explain our meeting.”

He considered for a moment. “I have it. I rescued you from some deadly peril and escorted you to town. I shall beg my cousin to take pity on a poor, desperate young lady.”

She sniffed. “We are in my carriage, my lord. And given the state of your, er, person…” She gestured at his rough appearance. “… I should think it more likely that
I
rescued
you
.”

“That’s good,” he said, after a thoughtful pause. “And my cousins will believe it, because they will feel great remorse over leaving me in that barn. Did a ferocious bull trample me into the hay? Or perhaps the owner of the barn took to me with his shotgun. Was I on death’s door? Did you nurse me back to health? Did the tender touch of your dear, sweet little hands bring me back from the brink?”

“You do have a flare for the dramatic, don’t you, my lord?” said Hilary dryly.

“Indeed,” he said. His mouth set into a faintly grim line. “Generally speaking, I don’t have to embellish on the true state of affairs.”

She waved a hand. “Most likely, you got drunk, had a bout of fisticuffs, and fell down in a ditch somewhere, from which I, in my infinite mercy, retrieved you.”

He chuckled. “Now that is just plain uncharitable. Unlikely, too, for I can hold my liquor.”

“Every man thinks he can hold his liquor,” said Hilary. “It is a great pity so few of them are correct on that point.”

He didn’t take offense at her observation, merely saying, “Never mind. I shall think of something to satisfy them.”

“As long as your tale doesn’t cast aspersions on my honor, I don’t much care what you tell them. But I ought to know, so that I can play along.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You are prepared to lie to my nearest and dearest? That’s encouraging.”

Hilary frowned, conscious of a slimy feeling of guilt.

It wasn’t as if she liked lying. Sadly, it had become second nature to her, however. When she’d possessed friends, there’d been the awkward question of why she never invited them back to Wrotham Grange with her for the summer. No, she always went to other girls’ homes, or if there weren’t any invitations in the offing, she would slink away to the Grange alone.

She wished, on occasion, that there was someone with whom she might share the ramshackle deVere side of her life, someone who would understand.

But the specter of her friends turning away from her when they discovered how she lived, with the house falling down around her ears and two debauched, loutish brothers who did not have a genteel bone in their bodies, loomed too large.

In the end, she’d lost those friends anyway. When one’s only common ground is an institution and that common ground disappears, it becomes well nigh impossible to maintain the connection.

As if he followed her train of thought, Davenport said, “Do you have friends in London? Will you enjoy picking up those threads again?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed,” she murmured. “There are many ladies who have at one time or another been students at Miss Tollington’s Academy. I daresay I shall find a delightful circle of acquaintances when I reach London.”

She tried to infuse her tone with enthusiasm, but it was hard. What if they shunned her because she’d accepted a post as teacher at Miss Tollington’s school? Or what if Mrs. Farrington spread tales about her horrible experience at the Grange yesterday?

That did not bear thinking about.

Hilary straightened her spine. She’d managed to get this far. Why let such trifling social difficulties stop her embracing the opportunity?

“We are making good time,” Davenport commented. “We should reach London tonight.” He glanced out of the window, up at the sky. “Assuming the weather holds.”

This hopeful prediction was immediately followed by a great lurch that threw Hilary against Davenport and caused the half-reclining Trixie to tumble from her seat.

Davenport’s arm instantly closed around Hilary as he braced his back against the wall of the coach. The world went topsy-turvy as the carriage crashed onto its side.

“Damnation! Are you all right?” Davenport took her face between his large hands and surveyed her keenly. He lay beneath her on the wall of the coach that had now become its floor.

“I’m perfectly well,” gasped Hilary. Pushing away from him, she turned to check on her maid. “Trixie, are you hurt?”

“No, miss,” said the maid, straightening her bonnet. “Not but what I’ll give John the coachman a piece of my mind for this! Took a corner too fast, I’ll wager.”

“I don’t think there was a corner,” said Davenport. Having laid Hilary gently aside, he was now on his feet, head and shoulders poking out of the open carriage door above them.

He climbed out of the conveyance, then reached down to help Hilary.

She gripped his arms above the elbows and he did the same for her, swinging her up, out of the tumbled carriage as if she weighed no more than a child. Her stomach swooped as she hovered for a moment in midair. Then he caught her to his chest before swinging her down to the ground.

As he performed the same office for Trixie, Hilary rounded the vehicle to find the coachman scratching his head over the damage to the wheel, while Billy quieted the horses and unhitched them from the mangled traces.

“What on earth happened?” demanded Hilary.